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“No, I waited for you.”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “It is very stupid of you to wait after half-past seven,” she said. “You might have guessed that I was detained, that I had a good many things to do, visits and shopping,”

And then, suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spent her time, and told him in abrupt, haughty words that, having to buy some furniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the Rue de Rennes, she had met Limousin at past seven o’clock on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and that then she had gone with him to have something to eat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself, although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined with Limousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only some soup and half a chicken, as they were in a great hurry to get back.

Parent replied simply: “Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with you.”

Then Limousin, who, had not spoken till then, and who had been half hidden behind Henriette, came forward and put out his hand, saying: “Are you very well?”

Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently, replied: “Yes, I am very well.”

But the young woman had felt a reproach in her husband’s last words. “Finding fault! Why do you speak of finding fault? One might think that you meant to imply something.”

“Not at all,” he replied, by way of excuse. “I simply meant that I was not at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find fault with you for it.”

She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a pretext for a quarrel. “Although I was late? One might really think that it was one o’clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away from home.”

“Certainly not, my dear. I said late because I could find no other word. You said you should be back at half-past six, and you returned at half- past eight. That was surely being late. I understand it perfectly well. I am not at all surprised, even. But–but–I can hardly use any other word.”

“But you pronounce them as if I had been out all night.”

“Oh, no-oh, no!”

She saw that he would yield on every point, and she was going into her own room, when at last she noticed that George was screaming, and then she asked, with some feeling: “What is the matter with the child?”

“I told you that Julie had been rather unkind to him.”

“What has the wretch been doing to him?”

“Oh nothing much. She gave him a push, and he fell down.”

She wanted to see her child, and ran into the dining room, but stopped short at the sight of the table covered with spilt wine, with broken decanters and glasses and overturned saltcellars. “Who did all that mischief?” she asked.

“It was Julie, who—-” But she interrupted him furiously:

“That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a shameless woman, beats my child, breaks my plates and dishes, turns my house upside down, and it appears that you think it all quite natural.”

“Certainly not, as I have got rid of her.”

“Really! You have got rid of her! But you ought to have given her in charge. In such cases, one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!”

“But–my dear–I really could not. There was no reason. It would have been very difficult—-“

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “There! you will never be anything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man without a will, without any firmness or energy. Ah! she must have said some nice things to you, your Julie, to make you turn her off like that. I should like to have been here for a minute, only for a minute.” Then she opened the drawing-room door and ran to George, took him into her arms and kissed him, and said: “Georgie, what is it, my darling, my pretty one, my treasure?”